Page 1 of The Side Deal
Chapter 1
I fake a laugh at Senator Miller’s tired joke. It’s the same one he told at last year’s gala. When I take a sip of my champagne, it tastes like expensive disappointment, just like everything else at the Wellington Foundation Gala.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, slipping away before he launches into his standard speech about tax incentives.
Three hundred people in designer evening wear fill the ballroom, their voices creating a hum of practiced enthusiasm. I weave between clusters of Seattle’s elite, nodding at familiar faces without making eye contact long enough to invite conversation.
Catherine Wellington appears beside me, her diamond earrings catching the light from the massive chandelieroverhead. Her fingers brush my bare shoulder. “Shannon, darling! You look absolutely radiant tonight.”
I curve my lips upward—the same angle I’ve perfected through fifteen years as Mrs. Robert Matthews. “Thank you, Catherine. The event is lovely, as always.”
Her gaze darts past me, scanning the crowd. “Where is Robert hiding? I simply must discuss the new wing funding with him.”
Of course she must. Everyone wants to discuss something with my husband. Robert Matthews, partner at Blackstone & Associates, the man who can make million-dollar decisions over cocktails and somehow make it look effortless.
I gesture toward the far side of the room. “He’s near the silent auction tables.” At least I think he is. I haven’t seen him in—I check the time on my phone—forty-seven minutes, not since he whispered something about municipal bonds before drifting away.
As Catherine leaves, I sip my drink and spot Robert across the room. Oops, guess he’s not by the silent auction tables anymore. He’s standing with three men in identical tuxedos, hands animated as he speaks. The chandelier lightcatches his silver hair. He’s sexier and more fit at forty-eight than when we got married.
I set my glass on a passing server’s tray and smooth my hands over my scarlet dress. The familiar weight of expectation settles across my shoulders as I prepare to endure another evening of meaningless small talk.
Carol Price’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Shannon!” Her heels click-clack across the marble as she approaches, clutching her champagne flute like a microphone. “You’re just the woman I was looking for. We need someone to chair the spring benefit planning committee.”
I straighten my spine. “Of course. I’d be happy to help.”
Carol explains venues and catering options, and I nod while my eyes glaze over. This morning, I stood in my walk-in closet, touching silk blouses and tailored slacks I wore when I used to work. My old marketing portfolio sits in a box on the top shelf, untouched for a decade. The last campaign I designed won an industry award, and now the trophy collects dust in our guest room.
“...so if you could have the preliminary budget ready by next week, that would be great.”
“Absolutely.” I have no idea what I just agreed to. I’ll email her tomorrow and tell her I was tipsy and need the information again.
She squeezes my arm and disappears. I grab a champagne flute from a passing server, not because I want it but to occupy my hands.
Robert materializes by my side. “There you are. Having a good time?”
I adjust his crooked bow tie and lie. “Yes, I was just talking to Carol about another committee.”
He nods and shifts his gaze toward the bar. “James wants to discuss something with me. I’ll be a while.”
“Of course, love. Take your time.”
His lips brush my cheek, and then he’s gone, cutting through the crowd, stopping twice to shake hands before reaching James.
I stand motionless as conversations swirl around me. The room feels too warm and too loud. In ten years, I’ll be in this exact spot, in a different designer dress, having this same conversation.
My chest tightens. I need to get out of here. I walk toward the ladies’ room.
The bathroom’s soft lighting flatters even the harshest features. I stare at my reflection. My brown hair is styled in loose waves, and my makeup enhances my features without being obvious. The velvet dress cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
I look exactly like what I am. A bored trophy wife.
I reapply my lipstick and return to the ballroom. Robert’s holding court near the bar, gesturing with his whiskey glass. I don’t think James is getting much time to talk to him.
The second champagne glass empties too quickly. I set it down and check my phone. At least another hour until I can leave without drawing attention.
When Robert finds me again, I’ve memorized the floor pattern.
“James wants to go for drinks to talk more.” He checks his watch. “If you want to leave, he said he’ll take me home.”
